Hidden Conversations
by gryffinclaw-witch
Summary: The Battle of Hogwarts has just ended. In the midst of grief and frustration and several post-war Order of the Phoenix meetings, the members of the trio are forced to learn how to heal. (Multi-chapter. RW/HG and HP/GW.)
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's**** Note:**_ This fanfiction was especially inspired by the Deathly Hallows films! Enjoy!

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><p>Homes are supposed to be pleasant, Harry thought with certainty. Not grim. Hogwarts isn't supposed to look grim.<p>

He had already watched Fred die but for whatever reason couldn't remove his gaze from the body when walking past it. An hour ago Harry had left alone the Weasley family, out of a wish to give them privacy, and he had then gone to walk around the Great Hall talking with other people. Since, he had run out of people to speak to; after spending a lonely twenty minutes standing in the cloisters by the courtyard, he had resolved to return inside, where the scenes had gotten no better.

He tried to comfort Ginny the first time, but she had a resilient spirit that had a tendency to oppose, rather than welcome, comfort from others. Now she was sitting, with her legs pressed together and bent at the knees, near George and Molly and Percy. She wasn't speaking much but stayed close to her family and watched her siblings. Arthur had recruited Bill to accompany him to an emergency meeting of the Order of the Phoenix (which Harry was invited to at the last minute but chose not to attend), and Charlie was already on his way back to Romania, barely giving himself time to assure his mother that he would be home for Fred's funeral.

Molly, her cheeks wet, rubbed George's arm, chuckling slightly for the both of them, mainly because he couldn't. "Remember from when you were fourteen," she was saying, "and you boys drove that car _all the way_ to Surrey, then home—"

Then, later, they went home again; after persistently asking Minerva if there was any help they could contribute, they were turned away multiple times with the reason being "You have all contributed too much already." After making a few more rounds in spite of Minerva's saying so, they Apparated to the Burrow.

Behind him as they all stepped over the threshold of the kitchen entrance, Harry heard Percy whispering to his father. Harry wasn't looking, but it didn't sound as though Mr. Weasley had answered.

Nobody else was talking. Molly set her handbag on the kitchen table but didn't stick around; she followed Ginny upstairs a minute after her husband had gone that way. Surrounding the kitchen table now, facing in various angles, were Harry, Ron, Hermione, George, and Percy. Harry glanced at the silent and sombre George, but tried not to stare the way Percy was. George did not make any eye contact as he gripped the back of a wooden chair and exhaled softly. Percy, standing beside him, lifted his head over his shoulder to see George spin on one heel and stumble across the kitchen to the sitting room.

They had all watched his departure, and once George was out of sight Percy returned his gaze to the others. He met Hermione's eyes first, looked persistently at Ron until his youngest brother was willing to raise his chin to him, and then finally rested his sights upon Harry. Harry almost didn't register Percy's rigid but sympathetic expression until the slight face had disappeared; by which time, Percy was walking away anyway.

Ron's gaze was concentrated on the tablecloth again, with one hand in each pocket of his trousers, and at one point shifted his weight to his other side. Hermione was positioned facing away from the table, leaning her bum against a chair, her arms crossed and her legs stiff. She was looking up in the direction of the stove, seething with an uncharacteristic sort of frustration. Harry couldn't remember ever seeing an emotion like that within her.

It took a while, but at last Ron swallowed and set his jaw and said, mostly to himself or Hermione but probably not to Harry, "I think I'll be going'na take a shower." Not bothering to excuse himself, he exited the kitchen and staggered like he was walking without balance to the next storey.

Harry was alone with Hermione and couldn't stand it. Pieces of the past few months fell back over him: they were in a cemetery where the snow rested like dust atop his parents' grave; they were riding a damned _dragon_ out through the rooftop of a bank; they were saving each other from Bathilda Bagshot's hostile corpse; they were in the library, first year, searching with almost no success for any insight as to what in the Wizarding World Polyjuice Potion might be.

Hermione mumbled something, and that was when Harry realised he had been staring at her.

"What?" he asked, but she hadn't even offered him a glimpse of her own.

"I said, are you okay," repeated Hermione with some degree of impatience, but also a fair amount of exhaustion—like her irritability was overwhelmed by a desire to sleep, and she didn't feel up to arguing. She swallowed, rubbed the spot where her forehead met her hair, and tried again: "Are you okay, Harry?"

He felt guilty for something he didn't do, on top of already feeling shame for the things he had done during the war now passed.

"Yeah," he told her. "You, Hermione?"

She nodded; her eyes were closed. "I want to rest but I don't think I can," she admitted.

Harry was in agreement; his blood would be spiked with adrenaline for at least the next two days. He nodded, too, but it was directed down to the tiles on the floor. "Well, I know Ron's taking first shower, but—You can shower before I do, if you want, 'Mione."

She saw his kindness and rejected it. "No, you go, Harry. I'll go before dinner."

* * *

><p>Supper came and passed and didn't taste the way Mrs. Weasley's cooking typically did. Harry didn't care much; he'd had few authentic meals since he and his friends left to hunt Horcruxes. Parts of him still felt lonesome, but this sort of feeling didn't make sense—the nostalgia presently affecting him was for the people and food and hospitality that were all around him.<p>

On their first night in the Burrow, it was so quiet Harry could hear the clock's hands tick. The clock, he thought; Ron's and Ginny's and their siblings' faces were probably not still pointed at "mortal peril"—except, perhaps Fred's. He suspected that not even the magical clock could know what Fred was doing at the moment, and Harry didn't get up from the sofa to check.

He had been noiseless in the sitting room for hours, pondering for probably more than half the evening, and no longer knew what was left to think about. It was nighttime now, anyway; he could see so because the shadows were blurring the colours and edges of furniture, so to the extent that it looked no different when Harry removed his eyeglasses. Maybe it would be worth it not to move, to spend the early morning on the sofa, to sleep here, so he wouldn't have to hear people in above rooms crying themselves through the night.

Actually, that's what he thought at first when he overheard somebody descending the stairs that were built on the other side of the wall. Harry inferred it was Ginny—she had quite distinct footsteps, in fact, quick and quiet, and if it had been any louder on this storey then Harry might not have heard her descent.

He didn't say anything to inform her of his nearby presence. Harry was very uncertain as to what time it was, but thought it was close to midnight. Even if Ginny wasn't seeking privacy, it wouldn't be wise to put her in a place where she could be caught by her parents in the kitchen late at night.

But Harry also wasn't sure if they cared as much. Ginny was practically an adult, or, she would be this upcoming August. She was capable of caring for herself, to the same reasonable amount that any of the others were, and she had spent many of her Hogwarts years ready and willing to prove so.

There were sounds coming out of the kitchen, rattling dishes and things, but they happened gingerly, like Ginny was making the most effort not to wake anyone. From one room away he could hear her sniffle occasionally. She lifted the tea kettle when it hissed, instead of waiting for it to start to wail.

Harry waited patiently too, for her to move swiftly up the staircase again, but it didn't happen like that. A short while later, she sniffed again as she entered the sitting room, items in hand.

Ginny didn't notice Harry until the third or fourth second; she abruptly halted at the doorway, staring through the dim light at the spot where he was seated, as though she was trying to work out whether he was actually there. He clarified the circumstances by straightening up a bit, shifting himself, moving around so he was sure she could see him.

"Ginny," he said in a moment, really just meaning to mouth her name, but accidentally spoke it in a whisper.

"Hi Harry," she murmured with a stolid face but a much more open tone, the kind of voice a person adopts when she is recovering from being startled.

He eased aside on the cushion of the sofa, one more time. He didn't completely mind that Ginny had disturbed his reflection.

"Would you like to sit?" Harry said; then, realising that she might not accept the invitation, he rapidly launched into another offer. "Or, I can leave you to yourself." He began to rise to his feet.

He was stopped.

"No. I'll sit," Ginny insisted, reaching out to Harry with some involuntary instinct. Her fingers brushed the end of his right shoulder and ran a way down the sleeve, before she gently placed the things in her other hand on the table in front of them.

It was a cup of tea, some light-coloured flavour, and a book that Harry vaguely recognised. In the low lighting, he could see at the right angle tears lining Ginny's cheeks. But, she was no longer crying.

"How long have you been in here?" she asked the carpet.

"Something of a long time, actually," Harry admitted, spacing his knees farther apart. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his thighs, and intertwined his fingers.

Ten minutes into the discussion, it hardly occurred to Harry that the novel Ginny had brought in was one that Hermione had read during one of their middle years at Hogwarts. Whether it was the same copy or not Harry didn't know.

"Aren't you thirsty?"

Ginny turned toward the table and looked at the small cup of tea as though noting it for the first time.

"No," she said, "not very much."

There were some beats of silence following that Harry couldn't handle, so he went on, "What are you reading?"

She caught his gaze for a moment and then reached out her arm to pick up the book. Its exterior was made of paper, it was of medium length, and colours probably existed on the cover, but here and now they were quite indistinguishable from each other. Ginny studied the front of the book like she had forgotten the answer to Harry's question and needed to be reminded; she turned it one time in her hands and told him, "Just—Something I got from Hermione."

Harry was a bit taken aback by the response. "She lent it to you?" He had never known Hermione to willingly share books with other people.

A smirk escaped Ginny, the same small and subtly wicked smirk that Harry remembered falling in love with.

"No," she said, and something in the confession made Harry grin too. "She was bathing before dinner, left her bag alone in our room."

The words were met with nothing except for that vaguely disapproving, yet also amused, smile. "What?" Ginny risked asking.

"You're too shrewd for your own good," Harry said, shaking his head at the floor, and then felt his girlfriend playfully shove his upper arm.

"She made it easy for me!" exclaimed Ginny, only remembering halfway through the sentence to keep her voice down.

They were both laughing. It felt relieving to Harry. Thinking of it now, he couldn't quite recall the last time he witnessed Ginny laugh aloud, heartily, genuinely. The last time he met her for the first time was right before the battle, and nobody's senses of humour were up and running then.

Her palm was spanned across her mouth, stifling the kind of uncontrollable giggles that come only in the middle of the night, and Harry simply enjoyed watching her be happy. The people she loved had just died, and she was nonetheless able to have happy moments. That, undeniably, was a good thing.

* * *

><p>Mourning was the worst eight-letter word Ron could think of.<p>

He was sitting on the edge of his bed. He was very hungry, too. In the previous week he had hardly eaten more than he had consumed over the course of the winter's Horcrux hunt. A tentative exception to this was that he ate when people brought him food—usually leaving it outside his doorway, and he accepted it when he knew the corridor was empty—because he figured it might make them more unhappy to believe that he was wasting himself in his room every day.

It was true to an extent, Ron thought; he found himself sleeping for only a couple of hours at a time, but he napped more often, and several times throughout the day. Sometimes, this meant, he was awake in the very early morning; he thought he heard people downstairs on some nights, but the house was tall and hollow and it could simply be settling.

Since his family returned together to the Burrow, Ron typically only left his bedroom to use the toilet or shower. When he was certain that everybody else had been sleeping for hours, he would sneak downstairs to wash the day's dishes in the kitchen basin, or to rest alone on his father's worn armchair in the sitting room. But in honesty, Ron didn't think that anyone had recently been able to get hours of straight sleep like that—not since before the Battle of Hogwarts.

That was the most bitter night he could remember in eighteen years. People were broken and people were betrayed and, at the end, people were dead. Fred wasn't going to show up at the front door come morning. And Ron was only slightly surprised that Draco managed to become even worse version of himself and, in some part, Lucius.

Ron remembered when Ginny had run to Harry after everything was over. For a moment then, he had felt a visceral urge to hurry after her and drag her back, even if her nails left straight lines in the dirt when he did so. Ron hadn't felt that sense of brotherly protection since Ginny's numerous romantic escapades in her fifth year; since then, and all through the past winter, all Ron had felt for her instead was straightforward panic. She would always be his younger sister no matter how many birthdays she had: mainly behind his back and when he didn't notice.

But most of the thoughts that had occupied his mind during the battle, since then, and even during his absence from the hunt . . . Most of those pertained to Hermione.

He missed her. He missed her, even though she was in the same house. He missed her when they were apart during the battle, and probably out of worry for her safety, but she wasn't with him and that had made Ron fearful anyway. Then they kissed, and then they pretended it was something fictional that hadn't happened.

He'd always loved her, just not romantically until last year. She was sharp, decisive, hell-bent, and so, so smart. Those traits seemed kind of scary if Ron thought about them for too long, but he would always find her too intriguing to refuse.

Hermione was the best eight-letter-long word, he thought.

* * *

><p>"—shrewd for your own good," Harry was saying in quiet undertones. Hermione couldn't see his face from behind him, but he was smiling when he looked up after Ginny pushed his shoulder.<p>

Her voice was crisp, but died down partway through her reply: "She made it easy for me!"

This was followed by suppressed amusement, and although Ginny didn't notice in the midst of her laughter, with one hand pressed up against her lips, Harry was grinning at her. It was a stupid grin, the kind Hermione had only seen him give to Cho before, but that was years ago.

Hermione took a seat on the side of one stair. She had left the bedroom she shared with Ginny about twenty minutes after the redhead sneaked out on her own, thinking Hermione was asleep. Now, Hermione wasn't sure anymore if she wanted to continue downstairs.

"Do you want to go in the kitchen?" she overheard Ginny ask from a couple of metres away. Their voices were less audible; their laughter had diminished; and they had no idea how close Hermione was.

Harry must have nodded or given some affirmation, because Hermione heard the springs in the cushions when they stood up. As Harry and Ginny's footsteps approached, Hermione leaned further into the wall, even though they would have walked right past her anyway without noticing her crouched in the dark stairwell.

At first there were the noises of cutlery and tableware, and Ginny said, "Use the kettle, the water's probably warm still." Then Harry murmured, "Not quite," and there was a sudden swooshing sound as the fire beneath the stove's hob went alight.

While the water heated, Hermione knew they were kissing. As she listened to them stepping across the kitchen and their lips being reintroduced countless times, Hermione hardly knew how Ginny had gone to be this way. Less than eight hours ago, she had seen Ginny's day-long reclusion into their shared bedroom, her reluctance to speak during supper; now, Ron's younger sister was kissing handsome boys and giggling like a—well, like a _girl_, which was something that Hermione didn't often observe in Ginny.

They stopped when the kettle's keen calls began to escalate, and Ginny whispered for Harry to "Quick, grab the kettle." Before it had screeched for the first time, Harry rescued it off of the hob and turned off the stove. Hermione heard him ask Ginny if she wanted more tea, to which she declined, and after which Harry poured water into his own cup.

Hermione decided to enter the kitchen then: they had finished their love, after all, judging from the sounds that ensued, and it had turned into slow, civil conversation.

She delicately stood up and moved down the staircase, almost stumbling on the final step—had that always been there?—and shuffled into the room.

The light was brighter in here than it was in the stairwell. Ginny hadn't seen Hermione right away, standing before the basin, dumping some tea down the drain, but Harry's attention was captured by her presence. A steaming cup sat before him as he said with too much alertness for one o'clock, "'Mione."

She stood, poised and unmoving, in the doorway. Ginny glanced up and greeted her too.

"Would you like some, too?" Harry asked Hermione, half gesturing to the kettle.

He wasn't wearing his glasses. Ginny must have slipped them off while the two of them were snogging. It was odd to find Harry like that, but Hermione refrained from mentioning it.

"Yes please," she agreed instead, and Harry took the kettle to the tap to refill it.

"What brings you here?" Ginny asked a few minutes later, as Harry set a cup of chamomile in front of Hermione. She smiled at him in thanks, and Ginny slid into the chair next to her.

Hermione raised the cup for a sip. It was the most weightless dish she had picked up in a long time, and of lighter weight than those that held her scanty meals for the past several months.

"Curiosity," Hermione explained, looking at Ginny, who was nearly the same height now. This summer she might surpass me, Hermione thought. "Just hearing noises down here." She didn't mention that, regardless, she had been unable to sleep for the fourth or fifth or sixth night in a row.

"Oh," Harry said, brushing crumbs off of the worktop before coming to join them at the table. "Sorry if we woke you."

"No, you didn't," assured Hermione, and drank her tea again. She spotted Ginny eyeing Harry's urgently, but Hermione knew she probably wouldn't ask him to pull out the kettle again. "But, erm," she started with caution, and both of the others glanced up at her, "I haven't seen much of Ron around; have you?"

Ginny and Harry exchanged glimpses and then Ginny looked down with a "No, I haven't" at the same time that Harry said, "Neither have I."

"I was considering paying a visit to his room," Hermione ventured, toying with the handle of her cup. Her mouth suddenly felt painful and dry as she remembered what it was like to be kissing Ron. It was only one kiss, and then it was gone. "Just—Just thinking about it. I'm not sure if I should, though."

They both seemed to be searching for responses. Then Ginny said, "Nor am I."

Hermione, even though it was simply an echo of what had already been her own opinion, gaped at Ginny. Harry's interest was caught as well.

Ginny saw both their stares and said, "He's got a short temper and he's still upset abo—" She stopped as if she had dropped all of her words and trying to gather them together again, in the proper order. "About Fred. Just, trust me, please. I've seen him angry before, all right, and I know what I'm telling you."

Hermione was ready to form a counter-argument when Harry said, "Has he ever done something like this before? Staying alone and away from you for this long, I mean."

She grimaced and thought. "No," she said.

"I—We can't leave him in there by himself forever," Hermione pointed out. "I want to talk to him, if I can," and the words felt like they were blistering her tongue on the way out, because now they possessed an entirely new application.

Ginny didn't retaliate, but Harry mumbled across the table, "I think it would be all right," and Hermione felt both grateful and embarrassed that he had likely assumed what she wanted to speak with Ron about.

Nevertheless glad for the approval of one, Hermione glanced at the other. "Ginny?" she said softly, drawing Harry's eyes over to her for a split second.

Ginny finally managed found something in Hermione's gaze that was more interesting than the tabletop.

"Okay," she said very softly to the suggestion. "You should."

"You're sure?" Harry asked her, but Ginny didn't interrupt the eye contact between her and Hermione.

"I think you should do what you think he needs," she encouraged Hermione, whose tea was half gone but growing cold, as she noticed in the next sip, "since he isn't willing to tell any of us."


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione spent the next day thinking over the circumstances, in spite of the input that Harry and Ginny had given her. The morning after that, when she woke up and was met with a random urge to seek out Ron, Hermione dressed and showered and saved some of her breakfast to bring up to him that afternoon.

It was twelve-fifteen when, under the advice of Harry and Ginny, who she hoped hadn't unintentionally turned her wrong, Hermione walked up four or five storeys with a glass of water, slices of toast, and one of Molly's leftover omelettes in hand. It was a little late for Ron to eat breakfast but Hermione couldn't recall anybody else bringing him food earlier in the day.

She hadn't been in this corridor in months and months; the bedroom she was currently sharing with Ginny was located several storeys below. There were not many other rooms in the vicinity now, but Ron's door was the only one shut. Even the closet at the end of the way, which appeared to house clean linens and bedsheets, was not closed completely. Hermione had been up here a few times, but never alone—always with Harry or Ron, and usually with both of them.

The walls were light but there were no windows. The stairwell was just around the corner Hermione had come from; there was time to turn back, and she felt ashamed to have already lost her spontaneous motivation so soon after feeling it for the first time.

"Ron?" she murmured into the door, before she could convince herself to leave helplessly. "I've brought some food."

In the pause she was listening, but couldn't quite hear anything on the other side. Hermione vaguely wondered if Ron had spoken and she had simply missed it. Not worrying about not hearing him right, she moved all of the food into the crook of one arm and rested her free palm on the door handle.

Warily she entered. "Ron?" she asked again.

It was, surprisingly, not as dark in here as Hermione had expected. For whatever reason she had anticipated a gloomy scene in which Ron had locked himself away without sunlight, maybe seated all day long in the corner or sleeping for a number of hours straight.

Instead he was sitting at the end of his bed, legs hanging off the side and more than long enough to reach the floor. Beside and behind him were pieces of paper, spread out across the orange Chudley Cannons quilt. The room was slightly dimmer than the corridor but had a window, and Ron had also turned on a lamp in the corner.

At the sound of the door opening, Ron had glimpsed up. His eyes had been on his thighs, where another sheet of paper was positioned.

When she looked at him, the first (and, for a while, only) thing she could think of was the glint that had been in his eyes when he left their tent last winter. They had yelled at each other. Hermione remembered thinking at the time that, if they hadn't been friends, he might have threatened or even assaulted her or Harry.

That piece of Ron's emotions was gone from his eyes now, though, and she didn't think it would come back. At the moment, in place of it was a bare expression of—well, Hermione could not think of a single word to describe it except for empty. Something pale, perhaps.

She very much wanted to approach him, but felt no confidence that her presence was welcome at all. She took a couple of steps closer to Ron, and because he didn't object, she slid into a sitting position near him.

Ron's bed was higher in height than it had appeared from the doorway. Hermione's legs dangled; she couldn't touch the carpet unless she stretched them out as far as possible, and even then only her toes brushed the ground. She felt some form of envy at the sight of Ron's feet leaning flat against his floor.

When Ron bowed his head once more—which seemed to be a preferable option to him than making eye contact—Hermione chanced a glance at his lap, but she found it very difficult to read whatever might be on the paper. The font wasn't large or bold; she didn't look around her because it would have been blatantly obvious, and Ron could easily misinterpret her curiosity for nosiness.

Hermione's throat felt dry. She cleared it a little, but that helped nothing. "Are you hungry?"

He looked down at the small, scant, makeshift meal like he was trying to decide if he was truly in need of nourishment. Hermione thought he was, simply from glancing at the hollows of his cheeks and the half-circles sweeping under his eyes.

"Please eat something," she went on, easing the plate a few centimetres closer to Ron.

He offered her another gaze and then, instead of going directly for the food as Hermione had expected a starving man to do, gently took the water out of her hand. While he drank a couple of sips, Hermione's fingertips buzzed in the aftermath of the contact their hands had made.

After a moment, he lifted himself off the bed and reached across her to set the glass on a table on her other side.

"Are you going to talk to me?" snapped Hermione at last.

Ron's head swivelled in a second to stare at her. It wasn't until then that she realised that her tone had been something along the lines of argumentative—she hadn't tried to say it the way it was said, but her emotions were beginning to pour over into her words. Or, just as well and likely, there was no other tone applicable to that question, and the only way to ask it was rudely.

"I haven't seen you or spoken to you in three days." Hermione couldn't have stopped herself if she made an effort to. "Now _you_ won't speak to _me_. I don't—Ron, I know you're upset and I know this has been the worst week of our lives, but I need you to talk to me once in a while. Or, to Harry, or your parents . . . Somebody."

"Hermione," he lurched—

"You don't even come downstairs anymore." Hermione didn't notice until late in the sentence that she had interrupted him, and a split-second-feeling of shock coursed through her as she heard his voice for the first time in a while; it was quickly overcome by a fear that she had ruined his sole opportunity to speak.

"I do," he insisted. Ron's eyebrows were low and his voice was a bit hoarse, but angry was the not the first word Hermione might have used to define him.

She knew he knew she was intelligent; he was treating her like she was wrong—or worse, misinformed—and Hermione hated that.

"No, you don't," she said, almost rolling her eyes, but catching herself. A row was last on the list of things Hermione wanted to cause, even though the two of them were heading in that direction.

"I do, Hermione," he half-spat, and she stopped fighting his point, especially when she heard him say, "The other night, too. You and Harry and Gin talking about me, I was there."

She was at a loss for a response.

"Oh," she said simply, but knew it wasn't enough, and knowing it wasn't the right thing to say. "Erm, how much?"

His lips quirked like he wanted to smile but was too stubborn to. "Enough to hear their snogging session." Hermione smiled at that, actually, which made it harder for Ron to persuade himself not to. "And, I saw you too. I would have been closer to the kitchen, except you were sitting on the stairs."

She nodded once, the humour leaving her in bits and fragments. She remembered their own snogging session, and still yearned to discuss it now, but had no idea how to bring it up. "And you didn't want to talk to me," Hermione finished for him, instead of starting a new conversation.

"No, not that," said Ron at once. "I just didn't know how, so I didn't. I thought it would be better not to announce myself than to make Harry and Ginny think you or I was eavesdropping on them—"

"Which we were," Hermione said beneath her breath.

"—or even worse, to ruin us by accidentally making you think I was ignoring you before that," he continued, and now had Hermione's full attention.

She asked after a small pause, "Where were you?"

"In the stairwell, like you," Ron explained. "Just, a storey or two up."

Time—but she wasn't aware of how much—passed. Hermione eventually felt it was safe enough to ask, "What are these of?"

Ron followed her gesture, directed vaguely to the papers, and whatever trace of his slow happiness that remained was diminishing.

"George gave them to me last night," Ron told her, brushing his fingers over one that touched his hip, but he didn't pick it up. "He said he was sorting through them with Fred before the battle, and then he was going over them again when we all got home yesterday."

"Two days ago," Hermione said without much discretion.

"Yeah," corrected Ron, and she wondered how long he thought he had been in here.

"So, what are they?" The answer had gotten lost somewhere in Ron's brain along the way, and she was trying kindly to pry it out of him.

"They're mark-ups of war strategies," said Ron, suddenly sounding a bit more enthusiastic. Hermione could pick out in his voice that he enjoyed talking about the people he cared about, even the dead ones. "And, plans for the shop. All kinds of things, actually." Ron looked around the spot where he was sitting, only to remember that the page he was searching for was on his lap already.

"Like this," he said to Hermione, holding it out for her. She took it by the top while he launched into detail. "It's sort of a rough draft. Ideas for products—tricky things, games, prank tools. I don't think George meant to show me these things."

There were lists distributed all across the page: lists of adjectives, lists of possible names (many objects on this list were crossed through), with small drawings in each margin. In one corner were scribbles, shapes, and other meaningless pictures that Hermione could imagine with amusement George doodling absentmindedly while Fred described a plan for expanding their shop.

"Then, why'd he give them to you?"

Ron's mouth twitched again, but not as if he was fighting a smile. "I think he intended to let me see only the battle plans, fairly," he said, "but maybe these he put into the same stack without noticing."

Hermione wasn't sure if she should ask, but decided it was relevant enough to herself: "What do the battle strategies look like?" She started sifting through the papers between them, but found nothing.

He plucked up a piece from his opposite side and handed it to her. It was composed of sketches, drawn proportionally and labelled in scratchy cursive writing that Hermione couldn't well read. Ideas for weaponry, a short list of helpful battle spells, and plans of actions were noted on the other side. Hermione wondered if either of the twins had been researching how to create new spells, and if they were, she hoped to Merlin that neither of them had tried to do so in the house.

While Ron was skimming a different paper, Hermione quietly asked, after some seconds filled with silence and averted eyes, "Ron? Are you . . . okay?"

He was silent for a long time, pretending to still be reading, and then shuddered with a couple of shakes of his head,, hardly allowing Hermione time to say "You're not okay" before he began to cry dryly onto her shoulder.

Hermione held Ron, letting him place his head in the slope between her chest and neck. When a few minutes had elapsed, she discreetly pushed aside the papers that were laid out behind them, and slowly lowered them both. She and Ron were lying on their sides, facing each other but not daring to meet gazes.

As Ron continued to weep in near silence, Hermione rubbed his back and stroked his hair; she thought he must have been telling the truth earlier, because he smelled too nice to have stayed in his room all weekend without sneaking out to take a shower once in a while.

She kissed him on the forehead and made circles again between his shoulders. He finally looked up and kissed her too, on the mouth, and when they returned to the previous position, she closed her eyes.

It felt like at least twenty minutes had left them when Hermione said softly, "There's a meeting tomorrow."

Ron, no longer crying but his voice still coming out coarse, moved his arms a little. They had been draped over Hermione's midsection. "When?"

"In the evening," she told him. "Harry told me yesterday morning. We're permitted to sit in on it. All the members—the remaining members," she said instead, but it sounded an unnatural thing to say, "of the Order plan to be there too."

"At Grimmauld Place?"

Hermione nodded and she knew he saw it.

"I'll go," he murmured into Hermione's clavicle.

"I think you should," she encouraged, holding him just a bit tighter, and he repeated, "I will."

* * *

><p>Ron came down to dinner that night, to most people's surprise; before even reaching the table he was swept into an embrace by Molly. Harry almost smirked upon noticing the way Ron eyed the food while idly patting his mother's spine, waiting patiently for her to draw back. When she did, she was smiling—but Hermione had noted sometime in past few days that Molly didn't smile the same anymore.<p>

They left the next day in the late afternoon. Upon arrival via Apparition at 12 Grimmauld Place, Hermione was the first to approach the tall brownstone building. She had already knocked twice upon the door by the time Harry and Ron were standing next to her on the front steps.

Kingsley opened the door for them and shared a small greeting. Beyond him, Hermione could see Hagrid, the Weasley parents (who had Apparated here several hours in advance), Bill and Fleur, and Minerva inside the house. Cautiously they entered the home; it felt colder than Hermione recalled from last autumn, when she and Harry and Ron had taken refuge here for a while during their hunt.

As they walked through the tight corridor and into the dining room that branched off from it, Hermione observed with some regret that they had approached what was already a meeting in session.

Arthur finished his very-political-sounding sentence before seeing his son in Harry and Hermione's trail; then he was quiet. Minerva, leaned against the wall behind the table across from them, offered a kindly expression. Hermione returned it as best she could, and Ron gave a nod that Hermione wasn't certain McGonagall had seen. Harry took half a step nearer to the scene.

* * *

><p>With the elapse of one hundred minutes, this wasn't the longest Order meeting that Hermione had attended, or had ever overheard. It was, however, the most draining. Hearing people speak of her long-loved allies, even in the most sympathetic and pitiful manner, was something that exhausted Hermione despite the fact that she was uttering no words or contributions.<p>

They had hardly come to a conclusion or a, at the least, next objective. She thought that she had witnessed Hagrid had dozed off for a couple of minutes about an hour into the meeting. Hermione recalled what Harry had told her late last night before each of them parted ways for bed: that the Order would dissipate sometime in, he predicted with half-confidence, the upcoming six months.

Bill sat up straighter. "What about Cornelius Fudge? He was involved."

"I don't know," said Mr. Weasley. "Remus was in charge of that and gave us only bits and pieces. Mad-Eye knew most of the rest."

In the ensuing silence, Hermione wondered whether people in the room were thinking more about Remus or more about Moody. She didn't know if it was Lupin or Tonks who died first, but imagined that if Tonks was here and Remus remained dead, she would take it harder than anybody else might. She was too strong-willed to quit the Order out of negative memories, but at every meeting, little reminders like these would kill her.

"It's gettin' late, 'Rthur," sighed Hagrid from his seat. With the evening light emphasising the shadows in his skin, he was looking the most tired Hermione had seen him. "Supper, almost. I ought to get back and feed Fang."

Arthur seemed about to speak when Bill suggested, without well realising he had misinterpreted Hagrid, "Is there anything to cook? Or we could run out somewhere for food."

"We may as well cook," Kingsley's voice said from one wall, "if you're hungry. Though I must admit that my appetite is absent at the moment."

"Mine, too," admitted Minerva, but she and Molly stood up at the same time. Molly said, "Fleur, please. Ron," and the two of them got up from their chairs and followed the older women into the kitchen.

"Stay for dinner, please, Hagrid," Hermione found herself saying. When the half-giant's eyes rested on hers, she suddenly realised that she didn't know why she had told him so. It was not until Harry looked at her too that Hermione made eye contact with her own lap.

In her peripheral vision, though, she caught sight of Hagrid shifting.

"All right, Hermione," he said. "I—I s'pose, if Fang has to, he can eat the throw blanket I've on the armchair."

"Hagrid?" mumbled Harry beside him.

The man squinted a bit, making his dark eyes appear shinier. "What?" he scoffed. "The thing's uglier than the day when Dum—McGonagall takes away me pets."

Once again the room was held at a low volume, with the tough thought of Dumbledore. It felt to Hermione like he had died much sooner than over a year ago. Minerva called from the kitchen, "I won't do that."

"Yeah, good thing," he replied in a gruff voice.

She rounded her head past the corner where the doorway was, offering a taut but most likely genuine grin. "You mean good things to Hogwarts, Hagrid. The children and staff only feel the utmost appreciation for you. As do the subjects of your curriculum."

"They're me pets!" Hagrid corrected her as she made a disappearance.

"Same thing," Harry said beneath his breath, but jokingly. The sideways scowl Hagrid gave him was paired with a pout, like he wanted to chuckle but would always refuse to succumb to Harry's cheeky remarks.

"Go help your mother," said Hagrid, nodding in the direction of the kitchen. "And you, Hermione."

Both of them got up, Harry patting the back of Hagrid's shoulder, and Hermione was unable to label her emotion until right after entering the kitchen: when she saw Molly standing diagonally from the doorway, Hermione felt gratitude.

Ron looked unhappy, though. Maybe it was being the only male in the room; maybe it was the fact that his mother was hovering around him, constantly advising him as to the most proper ways to cut vegetables, embarrassing him in front of his former professor, who smirked at the scene from her corner. Ron wasn't chopping the food well, however—clearly preoccupied as he was, he work evidenced pieces that were uneven and disproportionate.

Fleur noticed Harry and Hermione first, but spoke nothing and returned her gaze to the cupboard, which she had been sifting through for minutes straight for a suitable pot. Minerva saw them next, as they stood patiently in the entryway, and calmly alerted Molly.

She shuffled away from Ron, whom Hermione caught narrowing his eyes at the items in front of him, and put her and Harry to work at once. Harry ignored his assignments and quietly asked Ron if he'd rather Harry take over the vegetables.

Ron paused a second and stared, his eyebrows still slanted in frustration, at the tiles of the kitchen floor. "Yeah," he said in soft tones.

He had helped, but briefly, until Hermione pulled him aside and into the corridor.

She was frowning; it took a couple of seconds, but the first words from Ron were, "You shouldn't have offered to help cook."

"I didn't," Hermione said.

"She's not going to let you go easily," warned Ron.

"I know." One side of Hermione's mouth turned down. "I just wanted to talk with you."

Now Ron glanced to his left, at a higher height than the top of her head, and took his time putting his thoughts in order. It would have killed Hermione to guess what in the Wizarding World he was thinking about.

"So"—and Hermione wished quite desperately that she had thought ahead of time about how to begin speaking—"are you okay?"

It was probably one of the more wrong ways to start a discussion, judging from Ron's expression when their stares (his perplexed, Hermione's as earnest as she could make it) matched the next time. "I mean, you don't look as if you'd like to be here."

"I don't, very much," said Ron with a curtness that Hermione rarely heard from him. She hated the sound of it.

The conversation was looking less successful than she would have liked, anyway. Yet, not only from assuming that it would be awkward to end the discussion where it was now, she pressed on. Hermione's persistence felt annoying even to her. "I just think I deserve—_you_ deserve, too—to know everything that's happening since the end of the war."

The final word felt cold leaving her lips. Ron's shoulders hunched imperceptibly, maybe involuntarily; he lessened his voice, even though the sounds of the kitchen were loud enough to mask any and all of his words. "Not here, Hermione. Later, maybe, but not this minute."

Her smirk was more lopsided, more quirked, than the one that Ron hadn't seen from McGonagall. "It's dangerous to use knives while distracted; just saying," she pointed out.

"Hermione."

So, he hadn't answered in the way she would have liked—certainly not in the way he did in the conversation they'd had in her head half an hour earlier. "Well, can we try again at home?" she asked.

He stopped, and she didn't understand until minutes afterward that it was because she had called the Burrow her home. She felt equally surprised by that. "Hermione, I—"

"Please, Ron," she asked of him, and it may have simply been the empty air around them, but something about the pairing of the two words felt uncomfortable.

His face contorted again, but less in hostility and more in sincerity. He murmured his agreement to Hermione, and she trusted him enough to hold his word.

"Ron, where's Ron," they heard Mrs. Weasley mumbling in the kitchen. "Ron!" she exclaimed, not aware that they were three metres away.

"Yeah," he called in response, looking as though it was a dangerous thing to respond with.

"Is that table set?"

From her angle, Hermione saw it before Ron did. "No," she replied for him.

"Set it, please." The noise of Molly's pacing footsteps that had preceded her was now audible again as she retreated into the kitchen.

Ron huffed to himself but made his way there to pick up some dishes. Hermione stopped him with her palm flat to his chest. "I've got it," she said, and left him, a second after adjusting his collar, alone in the corridor.

She held multiple sets of cutlery in both fists, and pinched some plates between her sides and elbows, praying she'd not drop the dishes. Ron caught her as she was exiting the kitchen, and took several saucers and a handful of flatware from her. They brought the objects to the table together and Hermione decided in a moment that, should he be the one to drop dishes to the ground, he might just blame his clumsy actions on her.

She smiled.


End file.
